


Seeing Blind

by gothphyle



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 15:00:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12961944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothphyle/pseuds/gothphyle
Summary: The thing was, Stiles hadn't been lying when he said going blind was his greatest fear; he just hadn't bothered to admit some things might be worth it.





	Seeing Blind

**Author's Note:**

> written for eternalstereksecretsanta 2017  
> for tumblr user anchorsandadderrall https://anchorsandadderall.tumblr.com/  
> I hope this is the canon-compliant tale you wanted this holiday season!

The thing is, he wasn’t lying. 

Going blind really _had_ been his biggest fear, the thing that haunted his nightmares long before the nogitsune transformed his dreams and days into a waking horror. Before the Wild Hunt erased him from reality, rendered him helpless in a way he didn’t think it was possible to understand until you’d seen everyone you knew and loved walk past you with... _nothing_... in their gaze. 

Losing his vision meant losing his edge, meant losing the only tool he had to make connections, to solve puzzles, to find that one, vital piece of information that would keep them alive to fight another day. His eyes were more than his primary sense, they were the way he made sense of the world. There was a reason his mystery board was a mass of pictures, colors, strings; sight lent the chaos order, signal overload made the random logical.

Even his combat skills stemmed from his eyesight. He would never be able to hear or smell as well as the wolves, or move through the world guided by currents of electricity like Kira. Never be able to track a path with a slight touch here and there along the ground like Argent.

But he could swing a bat, watch for uneven movement and strike at the weak point. He could be the getaway driver, barrelling through buildings and danger to take them far away from the danger (always, forever) biting at their heels. He could be the research guy, sleep and relaxation traded for the final solution.

_All_ of it just part of being Scott’s friend, Derek’s ally, his dad’s back-up, and all of it based on being able to see.

So when his vision started to dim, he naturally ignored it as long as possible and kept the information to himself.

The first inkling he had was in Mexico, Derek on the ground in front of him and the rest of his friends rushing into danger just beyond. At first glance he didn’t see any visible injuries, it just looked like Derek was resting. Stiles knew that couldn’t be right, knew from the sounds of the fight before and Derek’s posture that there _must_ wounds, but he accepted the wild hope that somehow Derek had escaped the odds again. 

Derek told him to go, sent him to help his friends, and Stiles ignored the almost physical pull he felt to _go_ to Derek, to gather him up and drive far, far away from there. Stiles went to aid the others, secure in the belief that Derek was just gathering his strength before following Stiles into the fray. 

Afterwards, knowing that Derek’s wounds had been fatal, knowing that it was only by the grace of another supernatural miracle and the resilience of Derek’s own spirit that he wasn’t gone forever, the pull he felt towards Derek bordered on painful to resist. In fighting that impulse, frozen in denial as a flash-fire sequence of terrible _almosts_ ran through his mind, Stiles chalked the momentary darkness that blocked his sight up to nerves and adrenaline after-effects. 

But then Derek left, left Beacon Hills and Stiles in his wake. Stiles had to accept the ache he felt for never yielding to his desire for Derek, his _need_ for a deeper connection, was more than just mundane regret.

More than the bittersweet yearning for a missed opportunity, the chance at real, tangible love.

More than longing for a piece of happiness born of a multitude of sorrows.

As his dreams were consumed with increasingly elaborate visions of a life lived with Derek, of languid mornings drenched in sensual touches and days measured in warm glances and liberal embraces seen in his mind’s eye with crystal clarity, his days were filled with increasingly frequent moments when his vision failed.

Finding a way to get his eyes checked without alerting his dad, or Scott, or anyone else had taken a fair amount of subterfuge, but Stiles was nothing if not resourceful. The results offered no answers, the doctor clearly confused at Stiles’ dismay to be told his vision was near-perfect.

Supernatural it was, then. Again. Which wouldn’t have been so dire in and of itself, if Stiles had found a shred of information to suggest there was a solution. Or even a known cause. But Stiles found nothing, and none of his hints and inquiries to Deaton or Lydia had yielded anything, either.

For a while, the episodes seemed to level off. Stiles dared to breathe a sigh of relief his sophomore year in college, following nearly a month of only occasionally blurring vision after hours of reading on top of too little sleep. 

That relief was short-lived once winter break ended, and Stiles woke from another dream to the crushing realization that Derek wasn’t really there. And the terror of seeing only vague patterns of light and dark, like shadows through cheesecloth. 

While his vision cleared after less than five minutes Stiles could no longer ignore the fact that this problem was not going away, was in fact getting worse. Could no longer avoid contemplation of what would happen if his vision failed while he was in pursuit of someone (or something), while he was firing a weapon. While he was driving in general, but that wasn’t something he was ready to address…

What he could do was figure out a way to reshape his future, to find a path that would allow him to use the skills he had and his affinity for mysteries and protecting others without endangering them with his weaknesses.

Most of all, how to keep putting one foot in front of the other without falling apart and without laying another brick on the backs of his family and friends.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“The FBI internship program?” Scott asked, puzzlement on his face and in his voice.

“Yeah. Figure it’s probably a great way to get my foot in the door, see what options might be out there with the Bureau, you know?” Stiles strove for casual, willing his heart-rate steady in the face of Scott’s suddenly sharpened focus.

The early afternoon sun dappled the grass in front of him, shadows weaving with the intermittent breeze as they lounged on the ground after an impromptu shared lunch break.

“But-- why would you care about that? When you’re coming back to the Beacon Hills PD?”

It was the last day of April, and they were both enjoying a long weekend before the summer semester ramped into full swing. For Scott, that meant another attempt at organizing a weekend getaway with Liam, Mason, and Corey that would somehow resolve the still-awkward limbo that still stood like the elephant in the room when it came to their “pack.” Stiles got it, he really did. It was hard to be “the Alpha”, or even establish an identity as a _pack_ , when you were dealing with a werewolf, a chimera, and...whatever Mason was. Add to that the very small age difference, and the secondary challenges of integrating Lydia and Malia, and Stiles could well understand Scott’s continual dismay at the prospect. 

But he could also use Scott’s preoccupation with the task to his advantage when it came to dodging questions that hit a little too close to home.

“Hey, it can’t hurt to pad the resume, right? Anyway, why are you worried, aren’t you going to be tied up with the Pack Junior this summer? And learning the ropes for your assistant coaching gig with Finstick?”

Scott laughed, chuckle turning into a groan as he flopped back onto the ground. “Don’t remind me! Don’t think I don’t see your real motivation.”

“Real motivation? Why, Scotty, whatever do you mean?” Stiles forced a casual laugh, worried for a fleeting second that Scott might have realized, might somehow know.

“You’re running away to D.C. so you don’t have to sit through yet _another_ night of Liam moaning about Hayden, while Corey and Mason make out in the corner.”

“Don’t forget about Malia, sharing in thorough, _excruciating_ detail her plans for international travel and European men!”

They both snickered, chuckles turning to outright laughter until they ran out of breath. Lying on the grass, looking up through the canopy of branches and leaves, Stiles could almost write off the indistinct image as a product of sunny glare and a shifting breeze. _Almost_ , and yet that “not quite” held a lifetime of terror and terrible possibilities. For the moment, it was easier to just close his eyes.

“Well, just don’t decide you want to _stay_ there.” Scott’s words were punctuated with a gentle fist bump against his shoulder. “You know we count on you to be the voice of insanity around here.”

“Ha ha, very funny. You know you’d be lost in a fog of noble intentions and self-sacrificing logic without me. Or something.”

“Or something.” Scott snorted, waggling his eyebrows sarcastically.

Stiles forced himself to relax, storing this feeling for the future. If he was correct, if his waking eyes were fated to grow ever more unreliable while his dreams grew more vivid, then he would make every effort to capitalize on moments like this.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Seeing Derek running through the woods, hearing the instructor capture everyone’s attention with references to a “feral unsub”, Stiles felt the low-frequency hollowness he’d grown accustomed to flare to screaming, excruciating, life.

For the first time in weeks, his vision sharpened to perfect clarity, misty edges growing crisp as if he’d finally been able to blink away the ever-present film through which he’d viewed the world for the past month. More than just visible details, he could _see_ the possibilities and paths before him. And while the routes wound in different ways, the final destination never wavered: Derek.

Over the next days he found himself energized in a way he hadn’t felt in years. He slept less, researched more, gathered facts and intel from reliable and unreliable sources (each less “official” than the last). He maneuvered his way into a field op, managed to leave with Derek with both of them free and (mostly) in one piece, and ultimately drove back to Beacon Hills in time to walk head-first into a melee more deadly and widespread than anything they’d faced before.

The fact that he’d given little thought to Lydia as more than a friend and potential confidante--

The fact that he’d given less thought to the long-term ramifications for his career in leaving D.C. in the midst of his internship and in the open, known company of a prior suspected serial killer--

The fact that his vision never wavered after he saw Derek on the video feed--

That fact that the empty, hollow feeling was filled with total _rightness_ once they were again breathing the same air, even as they hurtled back towards likely mortal danger--

Well, denial was another of his best skills, after all.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Confessing blindness as his greatest fear was surprisingly easier than it should have been, especially after years of hiding both his fading sight _and_ his turmoil about it. Of course, Stiles was counting on their preoccupation with the dangers at hand and the conflicting he-said/he-said stories he and Derek crafted on the drive to distract them from examining his statement too closely.

Derek’s scepticism worked to further divert any uncomfortable questions about his phobia. There was a pulsing sense of happiness that they were so in tune, even if it was completely inadvertent on Derek’s part. Stiles carried that feeling of warmth with him, weirdly confident in their chances for victory given both the scope of the dangers they faced and the brutal losses of the past.

They would win.

The anuk-ite would be defeated.

Gerard’s henchmen/henchwomen… henchpeople… whatever, would be diverted.

He would have the chance to _finally_ follow the impulses he’d been fighting for years, wherever they might lead and however they might resolve. The hardest part of the conversation would likely be explaining to Derek just how long he’d been fighting the compulsion to find him in a way that didn’t sound completely obsessive. Or the connection between his unreliable eyesight and the dreams of their life together in a way that didn’t sound completely delusional. Or the fact that Stiles was increasingly positive he’d been half-way in love with Derek for years, but afraid enough of what a real once-in-a-lifetime commitment to someone with a past as emotionally complicated as his own would mean, that he’d willfully clung to the concept of Lydia-and-Stiles.

Stiles wasn’t naive enough to think Derek would respond with easy acceptance or declarations of love of his own, but he also knew it was no longer a choice to stay silent.

Just as everything he’d never allowed himself to consciously reach for seemed within his reach, his vision darkened to nearly black-out, and Stiles felt like he’d been stabbed. 

He refused to consider what that could mean. Refused even the _possibility_ that Derek could be gone entirely, and did what he always did - turned adversity into advantage.

When he faced the anuk-ite, his aim was true. Mountain ash enveloped the creature, the plan worked flawlessly, made possible only because Stiles was not frozen to stone.

Because Stiles was immune to the effects of the anuk-ite’s gaze.

Because Stiles was blind.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“Oh, my God. We did it. We did it!” Lydia’s voice scaled from shock to giddy joy, as she turned to fling her arms around Stiles’ neck. “We did it.”

“Yeah, we did.” Stiles forced a smile, hugging Lydia tightly for a moment before she drew away.

“I need to go--” her voice trailed off, a bit of embarrassment creeping in.

“Why don’t you go find Jackson, make sure he’s okay?” Stiles suggested. The sooner Lydia was on her way, the less time he had to try and hide his sudden loss of vision. It wasn’t rational, Stiles knew, but he couldn’t stand the thought of everyone knowing. Not now. Not yet.

“Thanks, Stiles.” Punctuated by a quick kiss to his cheek, Lydia left in a flurry. He could almost be insulted with the speed at which she accepted his offered out and exited the room, but that seemed petty given his motivation was getting her to do exactly that.

Slumping against the wall, Stiles ran a shaky hand over his closed eyes, ostensibly giving privacy to Scott and Malia who (by the sounds of things) were making sure Scott’s healing continued by duplicating the catalytic kiss. Repeatedly.

Footsteps alerted him to their approach, and Stiles forced himself not to flinch as Scott grabbed his shoulder and pulled him into a near-crushing hug.

“Thank you.” Scott’s voice was quiet, but fervent. “Stiles, thank you so much. I don’t know how you did it, but…”

“Did what?” Stiles asked, genuinely confused. “You’re the one who won, Scott.”

“Trapping the anuk-ite. Facing it head on. Coming back to Beacon Hills. Take your pick.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Scott, like I would let you have all the fun without me? I’ll always come when you need me, you know that. It’s what we do.”

“Yeah, but we couldn’t have won if you hadn’t sprung the trap. Speaking of -- how did you manage it? How’d you get the ash all the way around the anuk-ite without looking at it and getting turned to stone?”

Stiles forced a laugh, patting Scott on the shoulder as he drew away from the hug. Leaning his head back against the wall, eyes closed, Stiles hoped his posture looked like a natural enough pose of tired relief that Scott wouldn’t question it.

“That, my friend, is a long story. Why don’t you go check on everyone, see if we have any more to do here, and I’ll tell you all about it later tonight?”

Stiles breathed a shaky sigh as Scott left with Malia, both of them too focused on each other and the need to find any stragglers or survivors that might need their aid to examine Stiles’ brush-off. The sound of measured steps to his right and the impression of solid warmth at his side alerted him that someone had joined him. The accelerating pulse of near-here-now that flared back to life in his center identified that someone as Derek.

“You okay?” Stiles asked, unmoving except for swallowing nervously. “Not hurt?”

“I’m fine. But you’re not.” Derek’s voice was quiet, sure, his hand coming to gently press against Stiles’ arm. “Stiles, what’s wrong?”

“I can’t see anything. I’m bl-blind.” He stuttered over the words, voice breaking as a tear spilled from his tightly squeezed eyes. “I’m blind, Derek.” Saying the words made it suddenly _real_ , terrifying. “Oh, fuck, I can’t see. What am I going to do, how am I going to-- I _can’t see_!” 

He wondered if his panic would have continued to spiral, anxiety escalating into all-out hysteria, but he didn’t have the chance to find out. He felt himself pulled gently forward, his head tucked underneath Derek’s chin, hands clutching the front of Derek’s sweater as Derek held him immobile in the circle of his arms.

“We’ll fix it, Stiles.” The matter-of-fact words were at odds with the closeness of the embrace, a non-nonsense contrast to the slow sweep of one hand up and down Stiles’ back as his other hand moved to cradle Stiles’ head closer to his shoulder.

“Okay.” Stiles whispered. “Get me out of here?”

Derek hummed in reply, navigating them out into the hallway and back to the car by tucking Stiles against his side, arm snugly around his shoulders. They managed to avoid crossing paths with anyone inclined to ask questions, and the silence continued all the way back to the loft. It felt surprisingly easy to wait for Derek to come around, to slip an arm around his waist and nudge him in the right direction, to lead him to the edge of the sofa and wait for him to sit down as well. It was significantly less easy to answer Derek’s question.

“What happened, Stiles?”

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“I’ve been having… issues… with my eyes. For a while.”

“How long? And what kind of issues?” Derek’s voice was calm, but Stiles could hear the heavy sound of his exhale. A small smile teased the corner of his mouth, ridiculously charmed by Derek’s attempt to stay calm for his benefit.

“Losing my sight, or having my eyes go fuzzy for a while. Since Mexico.”

“Since Mex-- Stiles, that was years ago!” There was the agitation, the edge of fear/anger Derek was trying to hide. “Have you seen someone? What’s causing this?”

“Yes, I have ‘seen someone.’ In fact, several someone’s. As far as any medical professional is concerned, my eyes and eyesight are perfectly normal and healthy. But it just kept happening, and at the same time I was having these really intense, really detailed dreams.”

“Okay, so not a human problem. But what about Deaton? Did he have any suggestions? Or Scott? Lydia?”

“They don’t know.”

There was another moment of silence and then Derek cleared his throat, his voice going tight. “What do you mean, they don’t know?”

“No one knows. Not Deaton, or Scott. Not Lydia. Not my dad. No one. I just… I couldn’t tell them. There was only one person _to_ tell, one person that might be connected. But…” Stiles voice trailed off, words failing him.

“But I wasn’t here.” Derek finished for him, utter certainty in his voice.

Stiles’ eyes flew open, his head whipping in Derek’s direction. “Wh-- how do you know?!” he demanded.

“Because you’re not the only one who’s been having the dreams, I don’t think. I just thought it was wishful thinking.”

“Wishful thinking?” Stiles asked, his voice hushed and hopeful. “You mean you wanted…” Stiles stopped, closing his eyes as he gave a quick shake of his head. “I don’t know what you were dreaming Derek, but I doubt the dreams were the same as mine. Because my dreams? Were of us, you and me. Together.” Stiles gestured quickly between them, before dropping his head, shoulders slumped in defeat as he waited for Derek’s outrage.

But instead of agreeing with Stiles--

“We lived in a yellow, wood-frame house. There were three steps that led up to the front porch, but you always complained that there should have been four because--”

“--because the bottom step was weirdly tall and I stumped my foot on it at least once a month when I was carrying groceries inside.”

Stiles felt Derek shift closer, a solid press of warmth against Stiles’ side as he continued talking.

“You worked for the sheriff’s department, and I was doing some freelance work as an editor but we used to argue about whether or not I should go back to college and finish my degree.”

Stiles laughed, the sound turning into a sob as he leaned over to rest against Derek’s shoulder. “Because I said that you would be the best thing to ever happen to the Beacon Hills High department of English, and it was only fair that you _teach_ the next generation of authors instead of just--”

“--complaining about their poor grammar after the fact.” Derek murmured the words against Stiles’ temple, his arm wrapping around Stiles’ shoulders to draw him closer.

“Oh, shit, you had the same dreams. You had them, too.” Stiles turned towards Derek, half crawling in his lap as he clutched him tightly. “Does that mean-- do you want--- oh, God, do you want _me_?”

“Other than having my family alive, I’ve never wanted anything more.” Those words, the reality of them, the fact that Derek couched his desire for Stiles in terms that were so completely honest, convinced Stiles more than anything else could have. There was only one reply he could offer.

“Other than my dad, you’re the most important person in my life. And, honestly--” Stiles stopped, swallowing heavily before breathing the final truth between them “--honestly, if the bullets were flying, I don’t know who I’d jump in front of first.”

Derek growled softly, giving Stiles a small shake before pressing his lips against the shell of Stiles’ ear. “Neither. You won’t jump in front of either of us. You will keep yourself safe, and you will stay alive for us. For me.”

It was both completely surprising and entirely expected when Derek followed the statement by sinking his hand into Stiles’ hair, gripping and tilting his head back to take his lips in a slow, deliberate kiss. Stiles exhaled heavily, mouth opening under Derek’s as he wrapped one hand around Derek’s neck and snaked the other between Derek’s back and the back of the sofa.

Stiles felt the world shift, Derek lowering him back to recline against the sofa, shifting himself forward as he lifted Stiles’s leg underneath him until he was lying half on top of Stiles. Derek pressed his face into Stiles’ neck, tilting his head just enough to press a series of kisses against Stiles’ throat. “It doesn’t have to be a dream.” Derek murmured.

“But my eyes, what about the fact that I can’t see? I don’t know…” Stiles trailed off, hope and joy warring with outright terror at the thought of facing the rest of his life without sight.

“I know we’ll find a way to get your sight back. And I know that even if we can’t, it won’t keep us from building the life we’re meant to have. Together.”

And, really, who was Stiles to argue with that? He tightened his arms around Derek, shifting one leg to tangle with Darek’s, as he nodded. “Okay,” he replied, “together. I think that sounds like a dream come true, already.” It wasn’t _I love you_ , not really, but it was somehow so much more.

Derek sighed in satisfaction, growing heavier against Stiles as the events of the day swept them both toward exhaustion. Tomorrow would be soon enough to worry about the details of this new reality, and how (and _what_ ) to tell everyone. Tonight was for them, for sharing space and breath that was more than, better than, a dream.

And if the price for this was facing his greatest fear, was losing his sight? Well, nothing less would be a fair price for the possibility of a future this wonderful. For both of them.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

As it turned out, telling everyone was both far simpler and more complicated that he’d considered the night before.

Simpler, because Stiles opened his eyes the next morning to the sight of...sight. The light filtering in through the huge windows was a weak, watery gray. It streaked across the floor in hazy strips, dim enough to lend a damp, subdued air to the room but bright enough to throw the dust into sharp relief. This was a loft that hadn’t seen full-time habitation in a while, and it showed. Still half asleep, Stiles tracked the light with heavy lids, to where small fingers striped across Derek’s back, turning swaths of his hair silver-tipped and casting his eyelashes into sharp relief against the cheek not pressed to Stiles’ chest.

He was truly beautiful, relaxed completely with a faint smile curling the corners of his lips. Stiles raised his hand, tracing delicately down the curve of Derek’s jaw as an answering smile teased hip own lips. Such a wonderful sight, like so many dreams, but--

But--

Stiles stilled, eyes snapping open as the reality hit him fully. This? Was _not_ a dream. He was awake, lying on the sofa in a neglected loft, pressed into the cushions by the solid weight of a fully relaxed Derek. A Derek who had dreamed of him just as he longed for Derek. The werewolf who wanted him enough to consider their dream world - one in which he came back to live in the town where his entire family had either been killed, betrayed, or left him- a desirable future. 

The man who held him close, and told him in no uncertain terms that his blindness was a challenge to be accepted, and no barrier to the happiness they both deserved.

The Derek who had been such a huge part of Stiles’ life, whether in thought or in deed, for so long that Stiles had a hard time remembering his reality before him.

The man he could _see_ , in all his glorious imperfections. The small patch of stubble slightly thinner than the rest near the curve of his chin. The dark shadows under his eyes, testament to the effects of recent months of too little sleep and too much stress. The gap in his eyebrow, still too bushy to be fully fashionable but so completely, endearingly _Derek_.

Stiles inhaled, a soft, shuddering gasp that woke the other man. Derek’s head snapped up at the sound as he turned towards the door, one head clenching into a fist, before swinging his gaze back to face Stiles as he registered the absence of a threat.

“Stiles?” he asked, brows furrowing in concern as he took in the stunned expression on Stiles’ face.

“Don’t frown, Sourwolf. It’s too early for that.” Stiles watched the smile bloom across Derek’s face at his words, had the pleasure of seeing Derek’s eyes crinkle with joy before he bent down to rest their foreheads together.

“You can see me, can’t you?”

“Yes. Yes, YES! I can _see_ you!”

They were both laughing clutching each other and shaking with relief, and Stiles could honestly say he’d never felt more alive than he did in that moment. Every inch of skin pressed against Derek’s felt warm, the rhythm of Derek’s laughter rolled against his belly like the tide, and the hot, damp flow of Derek’s breath against his collarbone sent a shiver up his spine.

He turned his head, nuzzling against Derek’s temple as they stilled, and felt Derek cant his hips closer in response. Stiles rolled his own hips in response, pressing his hardening cock against Derek who shuddered, before surging up the last few inches needed to take Stiles’ mouth in a deep, wet kiss.

Stiles rocked upwards, feeling Derek’s cock hardening against his hip. He slid his hand down Derek’s back, pressing against his ass as he thrust upward as much as Derek’s weight allowed. Derek grunted in response, sound transforming into a near growl as he sank deeper into the cradle of Stiles’ thighs.

Stiles broke away from the kiss, panting softly as he met Derek’s heated gaze. He raised both hands to cradle Derek’s face, stunned at the utter tenderness reflected there.

“I feel like I’m dreaming, like this is too much, too _perfect_ to be real.” Stiles confessed.

“It’s no dream, or if it is it’s one we’re going to share forever.” Derek replied.

Stiles giggled, rolling his eyes. “Dude, that’s ridiculously sappy. Even for you.”

“Even for me?” Derek asked, schooling his face into mock sternness. “I’ll have you know, I am renowned for my sentimental side.”

Stiles snorted, nodding his head sarcastically. “Uh huh, sure. Derek Hale, Giant Softie.” He drew Derek’s face downwards, pressing a row of kisses down his cheek and across to claim his lips once more, the kiss turning from teasing into something hot and urgent in the span of a breath.

And if the rest of the morning was spent in a haze of lust, if Stiles lost count of the number of times he came on Derek’s cock, with Derek’s lips or hands wrapped around his cock, with Derek’s tongue buried in his ass as he screamed into the pillow beneath him, with his cock buried balls-deep in the tight clench of Derek’s ass as he gasped out a mixture of Stiles’ name and pleas of _don’t stop, never stop, Jesus fuck-- Stiles!_?

Well, that was one secret that they kept for themselves.


End file.
